a collection of fandomless original characters with overall gray morality. triggering content. 18+ required. part of the pcu. affiliated with @pcufcrged + @unforgivein 🖤
zephyrine @somebadguys said, “ it’s okay. think i can walk. ”
desiderius's bodyguard had wandered off to get their spinner after they'd finished eat a small little french diner along the bay. in daylight, he felt more comfortable going out and if he stopped to think too long about it, he'd know why. right then, at that moment, watching the water stretch out before him, the broker chose not to have those particular thoughts.
a commotion makes his head turn. his feet take him to the woman on the ground before he can help himself. his hand extends, offering it to her. there are a number of things scattered around her. luckily, just then, his spinner pulls up to the curb and his bodyguard steps out. the man's size helps anyone second guess whether or not they're going to take some of that stuff and run away.
" are you sure? " as soon as the beautiful woman looks stable enough, desi kneels back down to start plucking all her belongings off the floor. only after the fact does he hope none of it is lined with anything.
it's unorganized and messy, but he holds out her purse to her. " we can drop you off wherever you need to go, if you'd like. faster and safer that way. "
The scrape on her knee was an inconvenience. It’s a blemish on the canvas of perfect skin, marring the fantasy of perfection that she gives. She’ll clean it up when she gets to work; until then, she’s taking the purse from her would-be savior, procuring a delicate, embroidered handkerchief from within.
“Thank you,” she says, dabbing the cloth against the blood beading over her skin. Now that she’s looking at him, she can’t help the quick assessment as dark eyes travel over his face. (Very difficult to stop a habit worn into her over many years; the ability to judge a man at first glance has even saved her life, on more than one occasion.) Zephyrine doesn’t feel threatened now. This man, whomever he may be, is poised, calm. He has soft eyes, and despite the wariness that might accompany her from getting into a stranger’s vehicle, she feels none of that now.
“That’s very kind of you to offer.” A demure downsweep of her eyes, a small bow. The heavy head of a rose bending down as it wilts (though she has yet to let herself droop; the act simply serves to hide her thorns). An elegant hand extends to him. “Zephyrine.”
A fat, singular tear traces down the curve of her cheek. Bambi catches her quivering lip between teeth, hoping and praying he doesn't see it. It's going to make him feel bad. Hale already feels bad often enough, about so many things that aren't his doing. And sometimes... sometimes that irritation slips the leash. She doesn't hold it against him. Knows, before he says a word, that some tangled inner sadness causes him to lash out now. So she needs to take a really, really big breath and — and just calm down.
Which becomes much easier to do when he slips arms around her, warm against her spine. For years, she's been desperate for this kind of affection; like a flower, she turns to it like the sun, soaking up every bit that she's been afforded. Hale gives it so easily. He gives it without conditions, without limit, without her needing to be worthy of it. He gives and he gives and he gives and he gives, and for that, she can do no less than love him completely. So when he unravels his past for her, Bambi feels her own heart break. There's an invisible force holding her tight, keeping her in place; it's only the desperation tinging his voice that draws her back into her body at last. Bambi isn't crying now. Any pain of her own is swiftly pushed down, and she spins within the cage of his arms and gazes, earnest, back up at him.
“You don't need to apologize to me.” Her smile is a tenuous thing, but her eyes are warm as they find his. “Not about this, or — not for anything.”
This was a test. Wren has fought and learned this very lesson and knows better than to fight against it. Black eats away at the edge of her vision; her throat burns with the battle of each inhaled breath. She won't move, though. His is the hand of god, or the only god she's ever found worth her efforts. Her supplication. And even as her body panics, she makes her peace with the death he could deal out right now.
Today, he doesn't. A breath rattles down into her chest, though she makes the discomfort discreet. And she's rewarded for her efforts: the praise sends a flush of heat under her skin, and it's this that makes everything that she's doing worth it. Loyalty. He's got no goddamn idea -- except maybe he did. She would die for him, and he fully expects her to.
The details of the job are tucked away, though in truth, they aren't really all that important. It doesn't matter what he asks; she'll do it. And she'll do it all for the touch like she gets right here. Wren's eyes flutter shut, tempted to lean into that hand, though she knows better. The back of it ghosts against her cheek, and her body is instinctively responsive to it, breath caught and hairs prickling. Eyes level on his.
The edge of his knuckles trail along her cheek, skipping to the edge of her jaw, the bottom of her chin, tucking in beneath it as his thumb dances, tracing along the curve of her lower lip, admiring the way it trembles just so beneath his touch, studying the way her heartbeat races and leaps in the bend of her throat at his touch, as he speaks. She is beautiful, and broken, and more beautiful because of it. More useful for it.
He draws closer, bringing the distance between them to almost none, his head tilted down to allow him to nuzzle in against her temple, as his fingers snake up to tangle, not exactly lightly, into the hair at the nape of her neck.
"Fail me in this, little dove, and every moment of pain you have known in your life will pale in comparison to what awaits you." It was a murmur - a vow, as solemn and holy as any he had ever spoken. His lips tease against the edge of her ear, nuzzling in again, his mouth pressed to the hollow spot where jaw and throat met.
"Oh ------ sorry! Sorry." She's blissfully unaware of the fact that this bar is in a bad part of town, something pink and cheerful in her hand. The drink that she's spilled is his -- on him -- and she's already grabbing a handful of napkins and blotting them against his shirt. ( Personal space? Never met her. ) "I'm really sorry!" How many times has she said that now? "Can I get you another?" And hopefully the answer is yes, because she's already flagging down the bartender.
. The truth of the matter is, he's put himself into her line of fire for a reason -- or reasons, more specifically, the couple of, well, he'd use the term ne'er do well's in mixed company, that were giving her a bit too close of a once over for his liking. It's easy enough to brush off her apology, a slightly dismayed sigh all that he offers to her specifically, while making a point to put himself between her and the other occupants of the bar for the time being, letting her fuss over his shirt and drink while he watches out of the corner of his eye to make sure that they've gotten the hint; one way or another, she's no longer an easy target.
"Yeah it's - it's all good, darlin'," he drawls, broad, scarred fingers tugging the damp t shirt away from his chest for a moment before giving it up as a lost cause. "Just any old whiskey and coke'll do just fine."
“Sorry. Stopped listening a while ago.” // @pcufcrged
Malia blinks, hands stilling. Brows crease, nose scrunching in disapprov, and she gives Max’s arm a hearty shove. < Jerk > she signs, the scowl at her lips little more than a dramatized pout. She kinda figured, honestly; Max’s eyes had started to drift away, getting that glazed look that almost always meant that someone wasn’t listening. Their long legs stretch out before them, side by side, and she twists a foot to tap a boot against Max’s. < Are you okay? >
listen, i'm back home now, i'm thinking about things, and i saw the maxton hall gifset floating around and i was like. yk what. carrying people is elite content, and gdi y'all deserve elite content! as always, DO NOT ADD OR EDIT THIS LIST! and there's a lil spicy addition under the readmore, but i left it there just in case people prefer to have a not-so-spicy version.
[ SLUMBER ]: sender picks up and carries the receiver because they're so sound asleep that they won't easily wake up.
[ INTERCEPT ]: sender picks up and carries the receiver out of the room because they're angry and on the brink of engaging in a fight with someone.
[ ASSIST ]: sender picks up and carries the receiver away for medical attention because they've been injured and can't walk easily.
[ HELP ]: sender picks up and carries the badly wounded receiver as fast as possible to the nearest hospital or the nearest place to administer urgent first-aid.
[ ELATION ]: sender scoops up the receiver and carries them away after a mutual victory, or having just received very good news (or maybe they're both just very happy for some reason!)
[ HOME ]: sender picks up the receiver to carry them over the threshold of their new home.
[ AID ]: sender finds the receiver too weak to move, and scoops them up to carry them to get some help.
[ UP ]: sender finds the receiver and picks them up to carry them a distance after learning they're unable to get up.
[ BAREFOOT ]: the sender picks up the receiver and carries them inside because they're not wearing any shoes.
[ WEARY ]: sender notices the receiver about to fall asleep during a task, and picks them up to carry them to bed so that they can actually sleep properly for once.
[ TWIRL ]: sender catches the receiver in their arms and spins them in a neat twirl just because they want to.
[ HERO ]: sender notices the receiver about to fall from a height, and manages to intervene just in time, catching them before they get hurt.
[ FLASH ]: the sender and receiver are part of a photoshoot, and in order to finish the last of the photos, the sender scoops up the receiver in their arms for the final pose.
[ TRAIN ]: during a training session (for a fight or a performance, dealer's choice!) the sender ends up holding the receiver in their arms during their session together.
[ URGENCY ]: sender carries the receiver away from danger after the receiver is revealed to be unable to move, either due to panic or injury.
[ OUT ]: sender grabs the receiver and lifts them into their arms after noticing them swaying and beginning to lose consciousness.
[ SCREAM ]: sender spots the receiver in a terrified or considerably panicked state, and picks them up to carry them to a less terrifying place to calm down.
[ LAZY ]: sender concedes to receiver's requests for a piggy-back ride home because they don't want to walk anymore, and carries them the rest of the distance home.
[ CAREFUL ]: sender gently lifts the receiver out of their seat and carries them carefully to bed after noticing they fell asleep and not wanting to waken them.
[ HASTE ]: in urgent need of getting to safety as fast as possible, the sender scoops up the receiver and starts running because it's quicker and easier to just carry them than expect them to keep pace.
[ FURTHER ]: sender, during an increasingly passionate make-out session with the receiver, suddenly takes them in their arms and carries them towards the bedroom to continue their evening in private.
Diminutive in stature she may be, but only a fool would fail to see that Daenerys more than made up for it. Unfortunately, the man she stared up at was exactly that kind of foolish — mostly because he let himself be.
“Well stop it.” Impatience colors the tone. There was a time and place for compassion — and Daenerys could wield it well — but Hale was in no state right now to absorb her softer sentiments. He was drunk and wild eyed and spiraling, and she had already had enough. “I’m not going to watch you keep doing this. And before you start, with me,” she adds quickly, preemptively warding off some smartass reply, “I’m not going anywhere, either. I’m staying right the hell where I am — and if you can’t respect yourself, you’re at least going to have to try.
At least it isn’t personal. Rejection hadn’t lost its sting; the times she makes this offer herself are few and far between, and even rarer are they turned down. Amos has, though she can respect the reasons he’s done so for — and she can see he hasn’t done so willingly.
“You make an excellent point.” How jaded she’s grown to touch: hard grips, that left crescent moon imprints and bruises from their nails. Soft touches, so tentative, barely present on her skin. Half the time, she’s not aware of them for what they really are. When she’s on the clock, it’s all part of the experience being woven — sensory information to note, to shape the way she performs her skill.
This was different. This was a touch for the sake of it, one she felt with an electric thrill, infused with the headiness of desire. It makes her smile, warm and serpentine, gesture unfurled over lips. “Still — it’s a shame, isn’t it?”
His hand drifts away, with clear reluctance, his fingers catching and twisting lightly around one of the dark, scented curls that framed her features, letting it tangle around his fingers until it finally threads free, with his eyes following the trail of shadows the movement left in its wake, tracing the contour of her skin, his gaze knowing, and hungry. "Mmmm." It's a rumbled, heady acknowledgement of her words, his hand finally falling away entirely to rest at his side. "I don't generally let business get in the way of pleasure, but -- seeing as how your friend is helping my friend out of a bit of a ... sticky situation right now..." A broad shoulder rises and drops.
"But there's always tomorrow. Or the day after that." Amos' attention drifts back over to Takeshi, and Liam, studying the body language and expressions. Seeing nothing that he felt required concern, he let his gaze slide back to better, and far prettier tangents. "I haven't seen you here before so, I'm guessing Naples isn't your ... employer's usual base of operations."
No sooner has his hand dropped away than Soraya is missing the touch. There’s something unique about the gesture: Amos is attracted to her, to be sure, but he views her without the detached air that most of her clientele tends to have. Where they see a beautiful woman, they fail to see what lies beneath, the humanity hidden under that veneer. She learned very young not to correct it. They want to fuck a fantasy; the messy imperfections of life have no place in the room. Yet Amos seems to look at her and see her for who she is — and wants her no less for it.
“It’s my first time in Naples,” she confirms in reply, lifting a soft, well manicured hand to ghost its way across his cheek. “It seems we’re both just here for business, hm?”
titsay
jacobvanloon
kaledo-art
snowghoul
dededos
andulkaphoto
vaporwave
